FOUR
To an encrypted email, I attached the data Sandy and I had collected from Anna. I then fired the thing off to an agency contact I had been setting up bogus business transactions for. That contract focused on the former USSR and one syndicate in particular, Menchikovskaya. It’s why I was pretty sure this agency, and contact, would find what I stumbled upon to be of interest. If I was lucky, they’d like the look of the data I presented and invite me to dig a little deeper.
I wasn’t expecting more than a looks interesting, let us know when you have more response, so the actual reply caught me by surprise.
My agency contact, a guy called Roger, had cross referenced the photographs and descriptions of Anna’s various family members: mother, a former figure skater; uncle, a paranoid recluse with an endless supply of US dollars; father, a former engineer who had taken up a nearly permanent horizontal position on the sofa. Matching up the data, provided by Anna, with the agency’s not unsubstantial database on syndicate activity in that area, must have uncovered a web of connections that set off alarm bells. Or so I assumed, based on the wealth of information returned to me and the speed at which Roger provided it. What it boiled down to was the overwhelming possibility that Anna’s mother was a connected syndicate player the agency was very interested in, known as The Skater.
For verification, Roger, who I only knew electronically, asked me to confirm some of the information he provided. He suggested I look at what else Anna might be good for. “If you think you can find out who’s pulling The Skater’s strings and what she’s doing in Kiev, I can take it to the board. If this Anna really is The Skater’s kid, she’s an asset worth developing.” I’d never met my contact and assumed he was a typical chain-smoking Hollywood cliché. Then again, I was probably wrong and, like me, he was just another rung, finding, buying or coercing information, repackaging it and selling it up the ladder.
That night, via text, I asked Anna if she wanted to talk on the phone. She did and it added real-time audio to our means of communication. I dialed, heard it ring once, then a recorded mosquito like voice said, in Russian, “The customer is not in the service area.” Weird… I waited ten minutes and called again. Anna answered on the first ring. In halting whispered English, she told me she’d pulled the battery from her phone the first time I called. “Was not in toilet. Was in office. With others people can hear.” She assured me that although she could talk, she might have to suddenly disconnect. We actually spoke for quite a while. I worked on developing rapport while she told me, among other things, her mother and driver had just left town for Kiev. Yet again.
I passed Anna’s reports of her mother’s increasingly frequent runs to Kiev, on to Roger. It must have clinched the deal and landed me the contract. Then again, it could have been the family photos I’d sent along with the latest report, including one of Anna and her mother’s driver standing in front of a black Mercedes with a clear shot of the license plate. Whatever it was that did it, I was packing my computers, Gavin’s special accessories and my vintage Leicaflex SL2 camera and heading off to Kiev as soon as the details and support in Ukraine could be hammered out.
A lead-lined Pelican case, stuffed with Kodachrome and Tri-X film would feed my old Leicaflex. I didn’t know how much longer I’d be able to get film, let alone have it processed. It was 2006 and digital cameras were here to stay. The argument was, digital photography was better than film. Sure, it could be transmitted over the Internet, was cheaper, faster, easier and now ubiquitous with cameras showing up in cell phones and even toys. But as evidence, digital photography wasn’t measuring up. It was, after all, just zeros and ones — data. With some skill and a knowledge of data compression and storage it can be undetectably altered. Film, on the other hand, a good old-fashioned chemical process is next to impossible to alter without leaving a trace. Of course, the trickiest part of all wasn’t going to be getting film, it was dealing with Gavin’s outraged sense of ethics and convincing him to hold the fort while I was, to quote a popular song, “Back in the USSR.”
It was my intention to deal with that very issue at our weekly dinner. The place — my kitchen. The fare — a simmering pot of powerful pinto and black bean chili. I’d been rattling several subject-broaching lines around in my head while waiting for Gavin to show up. I knew he would object on moral grounds to what he saw as my using Sandy and even Anna to land a contract. Not only that, but my not being around to chase down local data and network security jobs would put a real burr under his saddle. It was a perpetual problem. In our partnership I was the sales force, accounts payable office and, most importantly, the accounts receivable department.
I was mellowing into my second glass of Irish whiskey by the time Gavin pulled his ancient pickup truck into the driveway. I thought I was ready, but coming through the front door, he caught me off guard. “Well, you’re off to Chernobyl. Think you might have at least discussed that with me?”
“It’s not Chernobyl. It’s close. Probably radioactive as hell, but it’s not Chernobyl.” I took another swig of Jameson and added, “And how-the-hell would you know? I just found out and the email was encrypted.”
“We agreed not to keep things from each other if it affects our business.” He paced to the window and looked down at his pickup truck in the driveway.
“I was about to tell you. That’s why I’m drinking, and besides that doesn’t explain how you already knew.”
“Newsflash, Jess. We’re hackers!” Gavin spun around.
I followed him to the kitchen. “Bloody hell! That was encrypted. Have you no boundaries?”
“I’m not the one who has trouble with boundaries, and someone has to look out for you. How am I going to drag your ass out of the fire when I don’t know what fire you’ve gotten it into?”
“Seeing as how you probably have a better handle on the situation than I do, you should know this is about as tame as it gets.” Nose in my glass, I slowly inhaled whiskey fumes before going on. “A simple fact-finding mission. A week, maybe two, holed up in a deluxe suite in the picturesque ancient city of Kiev. I’ll shoot a few rolls of film, take some notes, make a few contacts, keep my ears on, then fly home.”
“Right. So, if it’s that simple why do they need you?” Gavin ladled himself some chili. “They don’t have Ukrainians who can do that kind of thing?”
“I provide a premium service.”
“Eavesdropping?”
“If necessary.”
“Still doesn’t explain why it’s gotta be you. What else?”
“It’s Menchikovskaya, okay! Do I have to spell it out for you? I’m pretty familiar with some of the players in this racket. If someone’s gonna know who they’ve got in their sights it’s me, and Roger knows it.” I drained the last of my whiskey.
“Election rigging in Ukraine doesn’t sound very profitable. Not even Roger’s going to pay much. There has to be more to it than that.” Gavin stopped and looked right at me. “Or, there’s something in it for you.”
Whiskey and deadly-hot chili were waging chemical warfare in my gut. I stopped ingesting both and attempted to explain to Gavin that, although western interests wanted to see democracy take hold in the former Soviet Republics, election rigging was a visible activity someone with a sharp eye, keen ear, and the ability to make connections could latch onto to get a bigger picture of the syndicates involved. I pointed out that shadowing the election rigging could throw light on some of the syndicate’s other enterprises. Following trails of money and connections up through the organization to the czars, oligarchs, and new capitalists would provide the agencies with specific names and activities — clear targets.